


Drop Ship

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [6]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 05:24:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14687384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Hogan's away on a special mission and while the cat's away . . . Well, the mice are too damned sick to play.   A pending epidemic, short food supplies, and more add to the struggle of the Command Team to hold things together.  When London shrugs off their plea for help, Newkirk reaches out to the last ace he think he may have up his sleeve.





	Drop Ship

Hogan was to be gone, for an unspecified amount of time, some special project London said only he could handle. Somehow London had arranged the whole cover story, and made it work. Well, at least this time he'd been permitted to tell them a little about the job, enough for them not to be scurrying around trying to figure out a way to 'rescue' him, like had happened once before. London had just been stuffy about that little episode, especially when the team had broken into that meeting, revolvers in hand, about them even thinking of taking such an iniative, and while Hogan had been appreciative, of course, even he'd thought they'd overreacted.

This time, a fake German general had shown up in camp and taken Colonel Hogan away, supposedly for an extended 'visit' to an unknown destination to try to convince him to collaborate with them. Klink was astonished, but had to comply. The guys were supposed to keep a tight lid on things, no sabotage efforts, only the basic travelers aid stuff for downed flyers as need be, no one actually passed on along the pipeline. "Just maintain the status quo, guys. No monkey business, no daring-do, just the normal prisoner of war camp routine, okay?" a stern-faced Hogan had told them as he prepared to leave. 

Somehow, it had gone all pear shaped in just a week or so, through no fault of their own. A bad case of illness had come in with the last pair of prisoners brought in by the Germans, and was making its way through the camp. The weather had seemingly delayed the Red Cross shipments and camp food supplies; Klink had no more sources for medicines than they had, and food was short for both the guards and the prisoners. Firewood was rationed, and there hadn't been enough blankets and warm clothes to begin with. The heavy rains had kept the water tower full, but that was the only plus. The heavy rains also kept the barracks damp, leaks dripping into buckets, mold growing on the sides of the buckets. In addition, there had been injuries, mostly from men too sick, tired and worn down NOT to be clumsy, nothing that couldn't have been dealt with by Wilson pretty easily, except his medical chest was pretty well empty; he was boiling and reusing gauze, even if he'd had penicillin or morphine (which he didn't), he had no syringes, no needles, and even the sutures had been used up. Those who had been ill before, were getting worse; those who had been on the verge, were well and truly sick now, and Wilson was keeping a close eye on the ones he knew were worn out and always susceptible, like Newkirk and Carter.

The command crew had put in a call to London asking for immediate aid, either an air drop or a shipment by submarine of supplies. They were told, incredibly, that only Hogan had the authority to request supplies and they'd have to wait for his return, though they could not begin to tell them when that might be. They had asked that Hogan be contacted to give his approval, they'd been told 'that would not be advisable at this time.' They had argued, pleaded, tried to explain their desperate state, but to no avail. Basically, the message was, "just soldier on, that's a good chap. After all, we're not asking you to undertake any missions, now are we?" 

Even Kinch, the most level headed of the four, was livid. Carter was frightened (he'd heard Peter wheezing in his sleep again, and he was looking far too pale; he'd lost more weight again, and he hadn't had any left to lose, he had no reserves now; for Andrew, the others were his friends, his brothers - Peter, he was . . . Peter, and Carter didn't think he could make it without him), LeBeau had seemingly forgotten how to speak English, and Newkirk, well, he had stopped expecting any good fortune for himself, but these were his mates, and his mates and the others in the camp were his responsibility, never mind he wasn't senior or anything, they just were! For London to just sign off like that, like it wasn't more than a minor blip, that was the outside word! Wait for Hogan, that's what they were to do? Didn't London understand that if something wasn't done, Hogan might come back to a decimated camp? Or did it matter to them? Would they just extract Hogan, set him up somewhere else to do the same job, or maybe find something else for him to do?

Newkirk took a good look at what was lurking in the back of his mind, nothing new mind you, but something he tried not to dwell on; they weren't important to London, Hogan might be since he was an officer and had friends in high places,but they, the others, just weren't. He tried not to think on it, most times, but there it was. He fought it; he couldn't afford a visit from the black dog of depression, now; he had men to look out for.

They discussed, they cursed, finally they became silent, looking down at the long table in front of them, deep in their own thoughts. Finally, Newkirk looked up, resolutely, taking a long shuddering breath, "Kinch, pull out that booster for the transmitter you 'ave 'idden away, and that special frequency. Get it 'ooked up and let me know when it's in place. I'll be making a long distance call, seems like."

The others stared at him, for a minute not understanding what he was talking about, then Carter's eyes got big, "Do you think they can really help?"

"Don't know, Andrew, but they offered to if they could, and I don't see we 'ave much choice, we've no other options. We've got to ask anyway. We're about to start losing men right quickly according to Wilson."

LeBeau interjected, "You know mon Colonel will not like this," and Peter stared at him helplessly, "well, the Colonel ain't 'ere, is 'e, Louie? If 'e was, bloody London might be willing to actually send us the bloody supplies we need!" He looked back down at the scarred table, trying to push back that recurring headache, trying to get together what he'd need to say, what he needed to ask for, and the others waited with him, silently, as Kinch hurried down to the wireless set to make the call.

To say he was relieved to hear the voice answering their call would be a wild understatement. None of them had even been sure the frequency would still work, that their call would be answered. Yes, Caeide's family had promised assistance if called upon should London fail them, but he'd found redemption of promises made often depended on the mood of the ones who'd given the promise. Hogan hadn't made any points with Caeide, that was for sure, there at the end; who knows how the Clan might have taken that final confrontation. Peter had trained some of the Clan youngsters to some extent, some of the lads for a specialty in cards and the like, just over a couple of weeks each time, then two of the girls with a few special lessons over the summer, Caeide with a full year's Internship, but he'd been paid for all that; they hardly owed him anything. He'd never quite understood or accepted the true position of respect, of belonging he held within the Clan; that would have meant accepting a reality about Caeide, about himself, that he simply refused to acknowledge, so he did what he did best when troubled by his emotions, he pushed it all to the back of his mind (that was a very crowded place back there!). So to have them answer the call, have the calm voice at the other end take a detailed list of their needs, a full report of their situation, and ask them to call back in an hour; that seemed like a miracle.

Still, Peter was more than half-way expecting to hear a refusal when they called back, to have that calm voice explain they simply didn't have what was needed, or it couldn't be spared, or the transport unavailable, or something, some excuse to turn them away. He refused to give over to hope, any more than he had been willing to give in to despair. It was like he was frozen, doing what he could, but trying to keep all expectations flatlined. And he wished that bloody headache would go away; he was having trouble thinking properly, and he just bloody well didn't have time for it! He didn't like being in charge, he didn't feel he was good at it, and wanted Hogan back to scream at London and have London do as they ought. In the meantime, though, he had to do something, anything, even this mad endeavor, for the men in his charge.

The call for help had reached the on duty wireless operator in the early hours of the evening, before sunset; she knew that because she was watching the brilliant glow on the horizon, glad they'd thought to include a window in the transmission room. She turned with a start; the emergency set had a different sound to it, demanding immediate attention, but it was not often heard, and was always a shock. The frequency was one used rarely, only given out to members on the Family and Friends list, and to be used for emergencies only. Well, it certainly sounded as if it met that description, after Delian heard the overly calm tense voice on the other end, strong Cockney accent, relay their situation, their request for help. There was an underlying desperation there, she thought, something deep below the surface. She tore off the top copy of the message, called for one of the runners sleeping on the nearby cots, sending the youngster flying with the paper to the Duty Commander.

Within minutes, the DC was at her side, "Peter Newkirk, yes, he's one of ours; you'd have heard of him as the Professor, I think; he's not a lad to panic, nor one to ask for help, even when he needs it, so I'd think they've a real mess on their hands there for him to be calling. I've started a team collecting what is needed. Normally Caeide would be one of those heading out with the supplies, he's her own, he is, but she is too far away, all the way to New Zealand, on a project for Haven. Get Meghada in line, as well as Patrick and Michael for medical, and try Ian for the pilot. Their's is the primary connection, they'd want to be part of this if at all possible. If any of those aren't available, go to the duty list, but they have to be available and close now! Same breakdown, one warrior, two meds, one pilot. I need to know in no more than twenty minutes. I'll arrange for choppers or small planes to do the pickups as needed, and for a plane for the drop. I'll be back within the twenty; have a report for me by then. I'll take the next call, too."

With a warm but hurried smile, the DC nodded to Delian, "let's get the ball rolling,"

Delian started making the calls, thinking to herself, 'so this is Caeide's love; I've heard that story a time or two; we'll have to do well by him, for sure." A call to each prospective team member, casually answered, ease rapidly turning to sharp attention, ready agreement. 'Seemingly this one has more than just my cousin pulling for him," Delian thought approvingly; 'for her to love him is one thing, for her siblings to hold him in such high regard, that speaks in and for itself.'

When the DC returned, Delian was able to report that all the personnel she had requested were eager to help, gearing up, and would be waiting at the pickup spots. The supplies were still being gathered and packed, but luckily, what was needed, at least an initial supply, had been on hand in the big storehouse. On hearing the full situation and who was on the receiving end, the cadet in charge of getting the supplies together had also added other things he thought could be useful, things the requestor wouldn't have known to ask for. One of his special assignments last summer had been to put together a plan for just such an occasion, and his older brother had spent some time learning cards with the Professor, and if the war hadn't intervened, he would have liked to have done so himself. His brother had had nothing but good to say about the talented, funny and kind man, the one who had captured the heart and soul of one of his favorite relatives, his cousin many times removed, Caeide of Haven Farm.

So a good bit of forethought, and a lot of good will went into the packing of the supplies: in addition to the things requested he added a goodly supply of the Sustain powder produced at Haven and a few other enclaves, along with instructions; herbal teas for various illnesses and symptoms likely under the circumstances reported - dehydration, diahhrea, nausea, sleeplessness, headache, lung congestion, aches and pains in general - each in goodly quantities, each with instructions for brewing, doses, and for what ailment. On second thought, he added another batch of the lung tea; he remembered his brother saying the Professor had a chronic problem there. The Sustain itself should prove of great benefit, especially since it sounded like they had a good source of water for now (although water purification tablets were being included in case that changed). The Sustain, a dried powder made from meats and bones, herbs, dried vegetables, was extremely nourishing; if need be, it could sustain life at an acceptable level for several days by itself when added to water to form a broth, or even just as a dry powder, though it was appallingly nasty taken that way; it was also an excellent invalid food, a supplement to other foods. 

***  
An hour after the first call had been made, Kinch readied the wireless; the entire command crew was at the wireless, the tension almost unbearable. Peter stood at the table and took the microphone once contact was made, jaw clinched, braced for apologies and excuses, wondering how he'd face his team if that happened, what he would do, and was greeted with a warm, "Hello, Professor. I'm Chrystale O'Donnell, DC for the enclave you've reached. We have the supplies you requested, enough to get you started anyway."

He sat down with a thud, heart pounding, just glad the stool had been there when he needed it. He looked around at his mates, the look in their eyes matching his own; he though Andrew might actually have tears, though maybe that was just his own he was looking through.

"We'll gather more for a second shipment, but wanted to get this to you right away. Now, we don't have your coordinate maps you'd use with London, so we have to do this somewhat differently. I hope your memory of your old stomping ground is good; I'd thought we'd use those coordinates if possible. I have someone who can help with that."

"Hello, Professor, this is Meghada. I've a map of your area, both actually," with a reassuring chuckle. "Think back, if your home base is Maude's pub, would we be dropping the supplies in the direction of The Bull, Quartermaster Square, Leventries, or Schmaele's Warehouses, or somewhere between any two of those?"

He took a moment, realized with a warm glow he was talking to Caeide's sister, one of his former students, then turned his mind to the question she had asked. "In the direction of Leventries, straight enough, about twice the distance, though."

"Okay, I'm plotting that on the map, straight 45 degrees?"

He hurridly pulled the coordinate map over in front of him, "no, make that 41 degrees, more like."

"Done, Professor, we'll see you soon."

The DC came back on, "we expect to be there in approximately five hours; give us two flashes, a pause, two more; that is, I should have asked, do you have anyone available to meet our team and bring them in? We can find our way in otherwise, just give us directions."

"Yes, we'll have a team there, five hours, recognition code?"

A warm chuckle, "Professor, what else, "query Haven, answer Home".

Newkirk and Carter went out the emergency tunnel to make the rendezvous, and waited nervously in the underbrush til they heard the plane overhead. They flashed the recognition code with their light, but it didn't sound right, too small, coming in too low, and they were shocked to see not a larger aircraft like they'd expected, but a small plane, maneuvering in to drop its parachutes, which also didn't look quite right, six total, three large, three small at the designated spot. The plane circled to see all had landed, then took off low, barely missing the trees.

"What was that," asked Carter, "we don't use anything like that, do we? How'd it even have enough fuel to get here?"

"Don't know, Andrew, but that ain't one of ours, it's one of the Clans, and who knows what they've got. Come on, let's go bring them in."

By the time they came up on the group, the parachutes had been gathered and tied, the supplies loaded onto backs, and the group waiting in the shadows. Peter heard a tiny whistle, remembered the signal back from the London days, and chuckled; seemingly his student had a good memory if she'd pulled that one out of her hat; he returned with the proper counter whistle. He motioned Andrew on with a sidewards motion of his hand, and followed, keeping his eyes moving for any sign of ambush.

"'aven", he whispered, "Home" whispered in return in a man's voice.

"Best get going, Krauts may 'ave spotted the plane or the parachutes," he said. "Andrew, you take the lead, and try not to stumble over anything, eh?"

On the trip out, Carter had near drove him crazy, what with stumbling over things, bumping into things, and once near walking up the back of Newkirk's legs when the Brit stopped suddenly. Andrew nodded, but with a slight grin; if Peter was relaxing enough to tease him, that was a good sign. There'd been none of that for several days now, and even on the trip out, with his usual clumsiness, Peter had just grunted and said a fast "Andrew!" the last time he almost went down, yanking him back to his feet impatiently.

Two of the figures placed themselves between Carter and Newkirk, the third seemed to range slightly, one side to the other, dropping back slightly, moving forward again. Newkirk started to say something about keeping closer, til he realized he was watching what he knew was a Clan 'sheepdogging' motion, that he and Carter weren't the only ones guarding tonight. That felt good, actually, knowing what he did about the Clan, and he felt some of the weight fall from his shoulders; he didn't feel so very alone in his responsibility anymore. 

They went in thru the emergency tunnel, to find Kinch, LeBeau and Wilson waiting at the bottom of the ladder. He'd told LeBeau to fetch Wilson and have him standing by; Wilson was exhausted, as were the others, but if the medical supplies had come, he knew the medic would be furious to have been omitted, there were too many men needing help as fast as he could deliver it.

The group hurried down the tunnel, led by Kinch, to a room with a few cots and tables set up, lit by lanterns, so that for the first time the faces of their visitors were fully visible. Peter's eyes widened as he recognized the three; not just Meghada, Caeide's younger sister, (he'd known from the call, since he could never tell any of the women apart, except for Caeide), but the two older brothers as well.

His mind struggled to make sense of it - {"Oh, blimey, both doctors they are too, or Michael is, and Patrick close to being if not already! Didn't expect this,"} and grateful tears filled his eyes for a moment.

Meghada saw, smiled at him, and walked over to kiss him on his thin cheek, one hand on his shoulder. "What, Professor, surely you knew we'd do right by you," she gently teased him, though she was dismayed to see how close to losing hope he'd been. And thin, oh my dear, how did he keep going? Though the young Andrew wasn't in much better shape, and the other three were obviously well below the weight they should be carrying. How did London expect these men to do the jobs they required, in such poor condition? She had been concerned with the deep wheeze she'd heard when he breathed, too; he'd always been prone to lung problems; it was good they'd brought some of those special teas, along with the other medicines. And that tiny frown between his brows, the narrowing of his eyes, looked like he'd been carrying that for awhile; she'd get him something for that headache first off.

Patrick and Michael had dumped the packs from their backs onto a cot; Patrick pulled her pack off, adding it to the lot, and started collecting their jackets and waist belts as well. Wilson and the others watched in growing awe at what was pulled out and organized: penicillin, morphine, sulfa, aspirin, iodine, even some quinine; syringes, needles, sutures, gauze. 'Quinine,' thought Wilson, 'hadn't thought to ask about that, but yes, we have a few North African veterans who will be needing that, most likely. Stress often brings on a return of the malaria.'

Next came the Sustain, a bag in each of the three packs, long tubes of it in the lining of the jackets. Scotty Wilson looked questioningly at Patrick, who explained, "Sustain - very nutritious; mix with boiling water, if you have it, scant teaspoon per cup, and you have a hot broth to supplement your food supplies, feed an invalid, at twice that strength it can even substitute for other food if your supply is that low."

He glanced up at Peter with a smile, "It's one of the specialties from Haven; they make a lot of it; it's always in demand. The teas are mostly from there as well, with some from the more southern enclaves," he looked at Peter assessingly, "including that special one we'll need to get you started on as soon as possible, before that chest of yours closes in even worse; we don't want to be nursing you through a bad round, we know how you get. And the tea for that headache you're carrying."

Wilson arched his brows, questioningly, wondering at the familiarity and knowledge implied, and Michael gave a little laugh, "well, it's not like he's a stranger, and we know him well enough. And, though no one's thought to mention it," with a mock glare at his sister, "Patrick and I are both doctors, least I am and Patrick will be official in not too long; sounded from what the Professor said, that you'd been carrying this load pretty much by yourself, and the family thought you might like some help dealing with this lot."

Wilson still didn't know what to make of this strange invasion, though the quick fond glance Michael had given Newkirk when he mentioned 'the Professor' clarified that point, not to mention that kiss from the woman. He didn't really care, not now, anyway; now, what mattered was that he had help, really qualified help, supplies, something to help the men he was committed to caring for.

Wilson turned sharply, "LeBeau, start water boiling. In fact, Carter, contact the Barracks Leader in each barracks, have them doing the same, lots of it. We'll need it for treatment, and I'd like to get started getting some of that broth down the ones who don't need immediate medical treatment." he instructed.

Meghada interjected, "I'm not a doctor, but I've had the basic med training; you can put me to work on the less complicated things, too."

Wilson took a deep breath, paused, working it out in his mind, who needed what, where to start. He felt a strong hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight; Kinch, who nodded encouragingly. "All right, this is what we do . . ."

***

Four days had passed, four days of non-stop activity. Michael and Patrick had finally convinced Wilson to stand down; he'd held up long enough to brief them on everyone's condition, help them get started, but he was in rough shape himself.

He finally gave in to their urging, helped along by the direct order from Newkirk, "Wilson, you've got to be in shape to deal with Klink if he starts poking around! 'e's gotta think you're the one doing all of this, taking care of everyone, or at least the one in charge of it; can't 'ave you passing out, or saying something to give it away acause you're too tired to think straight! Anyone sees you in the bunk, we just say you're taking a fast break." Wilson didn't much like taking orders from Newkirk; they had a sometimes strained relationship, but he saw that the visitors looked to the Brit as the one in charge, without hesitation, and none of the other Command Crew stepped in to take that position, even Kinch who was technically Hogan's second, or Carter, who outranked them all, so he accepted it grudgingly.

They put him to bed in one of the bunks in Barracks Two, where they could keep an eye on him, where LeBeau could get the life-sustaining broth into him regularly. {"Coo, what a blessing that was, that someone thought of sending that along! Didn't even know it existed, but we'd 'ave lost a goodly number without it, I'm betting, and recovery for the rest a lot slower,"} Peter thought to himself. His own headache was a thing of the past, and the wheezing had just about died out. Meghada had proved to be a good medic in her own right; it wasn't something she'd had to do on a regular basis, and she didn't know many of the things Wilson had had to teach himself thru necessity, but the basic things, yes, and she put her energy to good use, though she kept mostly to Barracks Two and the tunnel passages; the presence of a woman in camp was something the fewer people knew about, the better.

She also had Kinch fire up the wireless, contacting her people, letting them know what was needed for a second drop; no personnel this time, but medical supplies, including more of the teas, more of the Sustain, lots of it; if kept in its sealed containers, it could last months without going bad, and this group would make good use of it. Also salt, that they hadn't thought of; to flavor the broth, surely, but more to help medically, in a lot of different ways. People tended to forget the old ways, but salt had played an important part, and could again, when it was available.

The Germans had better supplies, better resources, but they had been badly strained as well, and when two of those guards who made life easier on them started to get ill, the Command Crew discussed it, pros and cons, and Peter approached the doctors and Meghada.

"Don't know how you'll take this, but ole Schultzie and Langenscheidt, they look out for us, try to keep the trouble away, letting us get on with what we do." He paused, looking haunted for a moment, "I'd a been in a right mess awhile back if not for them. We'd hate to lose them, and they're both failing. I know we can't let them know you're here and why, and I know you might not feel you can do anything, them being Germans, and all, but . . ."

The three looked at each other, "Professor, friends don't always fall along political or national lines, in fact, they don't, as likely as not. And we're Clan, not formally aligned with any of the lot. If you say they need to be helped, then that's good enough for us. Get us uniforms to let us blend in, get them over here, one at a time, we'll see what's possible."

So they did, first Schultz, then Karl Langenscheidt, brought them in for a sit down, fed them the broth, making like it was something LeBeau had cobbled together, and both experienced a sudden pain in the rump, what Newkirk said was due to the shocking state of repairs of the benches, splinters everywhere! Hopefully they wouldn't need a second shot, since it wouldn't be easy to pull that off again, but more cups of the broth, a cup or few of the herb teas, yes, that could be managed. It was only a few days before both were well on the mend, their illness caught at the beginning. Luckily it hadn't been Klink who was ailing; Newkirk accepted the importance of keeping him in charge, and there was gratitude for his role in that mess with the three guards, but there was none of the personal fondness he felt for the other two, and he was glad he didn't have to make that decision.

The second shipment of supplies had been dropped and retrieved, the supplies divided into three lots, stored in separate places, just in case. Everyone was on the mend, and the siblings ready to leave, when word came that Hogan was on his way back. Meghada, knowing of the tension between the Colonel and her sister, made sure she and her brothers were gone before he arrived, since things had progressed to where Wilson and the others could handle it.

It seemed to be an unspoken agreement between the members of the Command Crew not to mention their visitors, but that was unraveled by the request for a status report from London, citing the inappropriate request from his team. He gathered them into his office, "okay, I just got my head handed to me by London; what's this about an emergency situation, seems everything is pretty well under control, what's going on?"

His crew hesitated, looking at Newkirk; with a deep sigh, he explained the situation in the camp before their request to London, and London's response. Hogan gave an impatient sigh, "Well, it looks like it all worked out. Look, I know it's a strain, with me gone, but try not to overreact, okay? If you ever have a real emergency, London's not going to believe it."

The men looked at him in disbelief, and Carter lost it. "Well it wouldn't have worked out, just ask Wilson. If we hadn't gotten some help, there's no telling what would have happened!"

"Andrew," groaned Peter, though he agreed with what Carter had just said.

Hogan just stared at them all, "Okay, who wants to tell me what the hell is going on?" he demanded in a harsh voice.

From the doorway came a voice, "I will, Colonel," and Wilson stood there, resolutely. He'd heard a bit from the crew about how they thought Hogan would react, and he didn't want the reaction to mess up their working relations with the Colonel, so he figured he'd try and take at least part of the heat. Of course, he wasn't in on the original decision to call the Clan, so he probably wouldn't help with that, but maybe he could help with the rest. He knew, possibly better than anyone else, what would have greeted Hogan on his return if Newkirk hadn't made that call.

"Here's a list, Colonel," handing a sheet of paper to the angry Hogan. "The first group, that's the men who would have certainly, no question in my mind, died if we hadn't gotten help when we did. There would have been others, of course. The second group, those are the probables, as I see it." Hogan took a sharp breath as he saw the names, the sheer number of names listed on the paper; the second list included both Newkirk and Carter, Schultz and Langenscheidt, plus several others. A second sheet of paper was handed over, and Hogan looked up questioning; the paper was blank. "That's a list of the medical supplies I had left in stock; no mistake, Colonel, that's the right paper, I had NOTHING left, NOTHING except some gauze I'd already boiled so many times it was falling apart." Hogan was pale now, thinking about what his team had faced.

Wilson continued, his face taut, his voice hard, "Now, I don't know what reason London had for refusing to help us, not letting us contact the Underground; that might be something you want to discuss with them. What I heard was that they consider the only valid requests to be the ones that come directly from you, but that makes it a bit difficult when they've sent you off somewhere; it's going to make it difficult if you get seriously wounded or sick or captured, or any of the many different things that can happen. Surely there has to be a better system."

"Okay, I accept that the situation was bad; I understand that London, for whatever reason, bowed out, and yes, I'll be taking it up with them, make no mistake. But exactly where did the help come from?" he asked again, this time in a more even tone. Even as he did so, he knew; his eyes widened and he looked at Newkirk, incredulously. He'd been firm, given an absolute order, that no one was to contact that family, with their condescending offer of help 'if London fails you.' How could they have disobeyed him?

He stood, ready to lash out, then he stopped, closed his eyes tightly. Well, that's exactly what had happened, wasn't it? London had failed them. He'd left his command crew in charge; they'd done what they felt they had to in order to save the lives of the men in this camp. How was he supposed to fault them for that? Tell them that his jealousy, his dislike for one woman was worth all their lives? He swallowed, made himself think of his men, his responsibility.

He turned to his crew, sat back down, "Tell me." And they did, of the rapid sickness, of the appeal to London and their brush-off, of the call only when it looked like men were going to start dying, of the three who came to help (he was aware of his deep relief that Caeide wasn't among them, and they'd been careful not to mention that the three were indeed her siblings!), an escort and two doctors, the supplies, enough to get them through the crisis, enough to keep them going for some time longer.

Later, in his quarters with Newkirk, Peter told him flat out, one of the few times he'd openly defied his leader, his friend, his lover, "Robb, I won't apologize for what I did, if that's what you're thinking I should. You left us in charge; I'm not going to stand by and see them die on my watch to save your pride. Likely there won't be another need, not if you get London to get their collective 'eads out of their arses, but if it comes down to it, I'll do it again. Just so you understand." 

Hogan looked up at Peter, "I'll make sure that it's not necessary again," knowing full well he didn't have that power, but hoping that saying it would make it true. Peter nodded at him, slowly, knowing just as well what a futile promise that was, but accepting it, not wanting to add to the tension that was going to take some time to bleed away. He left quietly, closing the door behind him. There were too many hurt feelings on both sides for him to stay, at least for now.


End file.
